


It's you I welcome death with.

by smartforholmes



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Character Death, Guilt, Hurt Greg Lestrade, Hurt No Comfort, Implied/Referenced Suicide, M/M, Mycroft is a Bit Not Good, Mystrade Monday Prompts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-26
Updated: 2020-10-26
Packaged: 2021-03-09 02:27:48
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,002
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27217183
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/smartforholmes/pseuds/smartforholmes
Summary: Perhaps Greg was too late.Based on Mystrade Monday prompt #13 “Am I dead?”.
Relationships: Mycroft Holmes/Greg Lestrade
Comments: 13
Kudos: 41





	It's you I welcome death with.

**Author's Note:**

> For better dramatization, listen to Matt Maltese's “As The World Caves In” from 1:55 until the end of the song.

His phone rang not so late, the clock revealing it was barely 21:00, London's sky was covered with thick and dark clouds that proved the forecast, a heavy and cold night. Greg was sitting inside his new office; after he was named Detective Chief Inspector, his space of work was upgraded and the area seemed better and more comfortable to spend long shifts in. But of course, one can never expect a quiet and clean space of work while you're associated with the one and only Consulting Detective in the world.

Even more, if you are romantically involved with his older brother.

Gregory Lestrade has been everything but a liar, that's why the moment Mycroft Holmes found himself interested in the golden Detective Inspector from New Scotland Yard he didn't throw away his shot and gained the government official's heart.

He melted the Ice Man.

But if you wondered, ·has he made mistakes?·, of course, he has. And this may be the only omission that could cost him everything and anything he has yearned for.

After missing the first two calls from Mycroft, the younger man probably just letting him know he was on his way home, Gregory picked up the phone and stared.

And stared.

_And stared._

His notifications showed a numerous series of texts by his husband, all of them brief. But every single one made him tremble, inciting him to get up from his seat and race towards his car.

_(2) Missed calls_

_I'm not okay, Gregory. I presume this is a dangerous night. MH 21:13_

_Gregory? When are you coming back home? MH 21:13_

_I believe I'm feeling hopeless and paranoid, please come home as soon as possible. MH 21:14_

_Gregory. MH 21:16_

_Please come home. MH 21:16_

**_(3) Missed calls._ **

_I need you. MH 21:18_

_I can't. I can't cope. I'm begging you, my dear. MH 21:20_

_**I'm sorry. MH 21:21** _

The journey towards their house had never felt like an eternity, and yet Greg laid there, hunching in the pilot's seat of his Mercedes-Benz, dialing Mycroft's number in an attempt to make contact with him.

Persuade himself that perhaps all of this was just another realistic nightmare.

His hands were shaking as he arrived at the house, typing the code with throbbing fingers and sweat streaming down his forehead. The house's horrifically silent, and it does nothing to calm the anxiety beast inside his head. Eventually, he found the courage to wander around the place, looking for his husband.

He stood in front of the door to their bedroom, after not locating Mycroft in his study. He hesitated, wondering if it was prudent to enter the room, but the fear of the elder Holmes going back to his old methods won the battle. And he entered.

Only to be greeted by the most dreadful scenery he would ever meet face to face in his life.

Mycroft was sprawled next to the bed, a scotch bottle lying limply from his fingers and several pill bottles surrounding him. He looked lifeless.

_Dead_.

Lestrade flew to his side, his fingers instantly landing on the elder Holmes' pulse point, awaiting the sensation of Mycroft's wonderful heart beating. But he was received by a faint and hardly present thump under his fingertips.

“Myc? Darlin’, can you speak to me? Can you hear me?” Gregory begged, struggling to find the courage to not break down.

In tears, Gregory dialed an ambulance, explaining scarcely to the operator what happened, imploring them to arrive as soon as possible, his hand never leaving Mycroft's neck.

It took a monumental effort, but before the ambulance arrived he rested Mycroft down, rolling him into his side so he won't choke. With Anthea, Sherlock, and John aware of the situation, Greg allowed the tears to flow and sobs wreck his entire frame, hands clenching the front of his husband's waistcoat.

A whimper broke out from Mycroft's lips, followed by a small trail of vomit coming out his mouth.

“It's alright, love. Just let it out, that's it.” He massaged his sternum, stimulating him to throw up all the drugs he had taken.

A couple of tired and bloodshot eyes stared at him, eyelids dropping now and then. “Am I dead?” Mycroft asked, his voice slightly slurred.

Gregory got closer to him, holding his hand tightly against his chest. “No... none of that now, alright? Help's on the way, sweetheart. It's gonna be okay.”

With his free hand, Lestrade stroked Mycroft's ginger locks, a soft smile shaping his lips as he gazed at the government official's unfocused eyes. Just then, the sound of several rushed footsteps echoed in the house, Sherlock, John, Anthea, and a medical crew emerging at the entrance of the bedroom.

“Mr. Holmes...” Anthea managed to whisper, too shocked to say anything else. On the other hand, Sherlock and John sprinted towards the couple on the floor.

John's medical instinct kicked in almost immediately, followed closely by the paramedics. “What has he taken?” 

Greg grabbed the various bottles and tossed them to the Doctor's hands. “All of them had at least half of their content,” Greg murmured, not taking his sight away from his husband. “But still I have no idea how much has he taken.”

Eventually, a paramedic arrived with a stretcher, where the elder Holmes was deposited, an oxygen mask covering half of his pale face assisting him to keep breathing. Greg didn't hesitate on climbing inside the ambulance, ignoring just for a moment the indignation on Sherlock's factions.

Lestrade held tight onto Mycroft's frigid hand, stroking his knuckles with his thumb, comforting him. “I'm right here, My, I'm right here,” Greg murmured, warm lips brushing against cold skin.

“Gregory...” Came the weak voice, looking for such a handsome face. “It's you...” Mycroft trailed off, trying his best to stay conscious. “It's you I welcome death with, ”

Mycroft Holmes' last words were followed by a traumatizing high pitch sound that indicated his heart stopped beating.

**Author's Note:**

> If you desire a second part, it may be a continuation, a happy ending, or Mycroft's point of view, let me know; I didn't have any idea how to continue.


End file.
